Читать книгу My Only Vice - Elizabeth Bevarly - Страница 7

THE MORNING FOLLOWING her sexual encounter of the baguette kind with Sam in Alice’s studio, Rosie was in her not-yet-open flower shop, still thinking about him. In fact, she hadn’t really stopped thinking about him during the past twenty-four hours. He might have drifted from her conscious into her subconscious from time to time—something she’d realized when she sat down to eat her dinner of bagel and Polish sausage, which she’d for sure never fixed for dinner before—but he’d always been present in her brain in some form. And his form was usually naked and sweaty when he’d been present in her brain. And he hadn’t been present in just her brain, but he’d also been present in her heart. And also a couple of other body parts—at least, figuratively speaking—that she’d as soon not dwell on right now.

She sighed and brushed a hand down the front of her embroidered, dark green peasant shirt and faded blue jeans to dislodge a few remnants of dirt, but mostly all she dislodged was the shirt—over one shoulder, something it had a habit of doing thanks to its deeply scooped neckline. The spilled dirt was another by-product of thoughts about Sam, since being preoccupied was what Rosie had been doing when she pulled a big bag of potting soil off a shelf without realizing it was open—until she’d dumped a good bit of it down the front of her clothes. Pulling her shirttail from her jeans, she shook the rest of the dirt out, not bothering to tuck the garment in again when she was done.

Oh, hang it. She wouldn’t be opening for another two hours, so she had time to run to her apartment upstairs and change, once she had everything in the store set to go. All that was left to do—other than sweeping up what was left of the dirt—was to brew up and sample a new aphrodisiac tea she had blended for a client.

And, it went without saying, to think about Sam.

What was weird was that, as Rosie swept, she found herself thinking about him less in the hot, naked sex sense and more in the quiet, candlelit dinner sense. In fact, she found herself pondering the pros and cons of asking him out. Loaf of French bread aside, there had just been something about the way he’d looked at her in Alice’s studio yesterday that made her think maybe, possibly, he felt steam ballooning around them, too, but was just trying to pretend he didn’t.

Though why he would pretend something like that if he was feeling the steam was a mystery. Rosie thought she’d made clear her interest in him a long time ago. Why would a man deliberately avoid a woman who was interested in him and capable of putting a loaf of French bread in his pocket? That didn’t make any sense.

Okay, so that was one con about asking him out—even if he did like her, he still might turn her down on account of that mysterious pretending the steam didn’t exist thing. Pro, however, she was pretty sure he did like her. Con, on the other hand, if he turned her down, things between them might end up being even more awkward than they already were, and it might make for discomfort whenever their paths crossed again. And Northaven being a small town, their paths did cross fairly regularly.

Another con was that, since gossip was a popular pastime in Northaven, everyone in town would hear about the incident, and then everyone would know Rosie was jonesing for Sam. Not that she’d ever been bothered by gossip, but having it known publicly that she had tried unsuccessfully to enter the dating arena, everyone in town would suddenly want to fix her up with whatever single man they could find. Nephews. Cousins. Plumbers. Accountants. Plumbers’ cousins. Plumbers’ cousins’ nephews. Plumbers’ cousins’ nephews’ accountants.

In a word, oog.

Putting aside the cons, since they seemed to be piling up, Rosie considered the pros instead. Pro, if Sam agreed to go out with her, there might be some smokin’ sex at the end of the evening.

Well, there you go, she thought. Pros win, hands down. Next time she saw Sam, she’d figure out some way to work an invitation to dinner or a movie—or, you know, smokin’ sex—into the conversation.

When she finished sweeping, Rosie brewed up a batch of her new aphrodisiac tea. For convenience’s sake, she used the teapot in the front of the shop she always kept filled with regular herbal tea for her customers, so that they could help themselves as they browsed or placed their orders. As she waited for the tea to steep, she pushed all thoughts of Sam out of her brain. It was essential that she not be thinking about him when she drank the tea, to ensure it worked the way it was supposed to. Thinking about Sam just naturally turned her on. He was a walking, talking aphrodisiac unto himself.

After removing the muslin pouch full of herbs from the infusion, Rosie squeezed out the last few drops and set the bag aside. Then she filled one of an assortment of earthenware mugs on the shelf beside the teapot and lifted it to her nose, inhaling deeply and smiling at the hint of cinnamon she’d added this time to give the added benefit of freshening breath. After blowing gently on the concoction, she took an experimental sip.

The taste was better than the batch she’d mixed up yesterday, thanks to the cinnamon, and she couldn’t taste the kava kava now at all. But reducing the amount of kava kava might have also weakened the power of the recipe, so she’d doubled up on the damiana this time. Still, she knew she’d have to finish the entire cup and wait anywhere from fifteen to thirty minutes before she could be certain of its full effect.

She was consuming the last swallow when the bell on the front door announced the arrival of a customer, even though the store’s Open-Closed sign was flipped over to the Closed position, and the hours clearly printed on the window indicated opening was nearly ninety minutes away. Stifling her irritation, Rosie turned around to politely tell the newcomer just that—

And saw Sam Maguire standing framed in the doorway, his hands hooked loosely on his hips.

The door swung closed behind him, but he took a step forward and landed in a pool of golden, early-morning sun that filtered through the window beside him. The light was almost otherworldly, lighting dark amber fires in his chocolate-brown hair and somehow softening his rugged features. Even the starkness of his white cop shirt seemed to fade to a softer cream, the sun reflecting off the gold badge pinned to his pocket and making it shine like a beacon of goodness and decency.

The look he was giving her, however, was anything but decent. His eyes were narrowed, and his lips were flattened into a tight line. But the scowl did nothing to detract from his extreme good looks, and in fact made Rosie feel kind of—

Well. There was no denying it. Either her new recipe was working way faster than she’d thought it would, or Sam Maguire’s simple nearness was about to bring her to a cataclysmic orgasm. And although Rosie knew her aphrodisiac teas were good, she was pragmatic enough to realize they weren’t that good. So she had no choice but to accept the fact that human flesh and blood would always be more powerful than plant life in bringing a woman to the brink of sexual fulfillment.

Damn, she thought. So much for not polluting the effects of the infusion with thoughts of Sam Maguire. He hadn’t even said hello to her, and already her skin was growing warm—which was always her first indication that a new tea was working. The next indication was always the dampening of her palms, which—

Yep. There they went, right on cue. Except way too early for the reaction to be a result of the tea. Rosie just hoped the other kind of dampness that came next, the dampness between her legs, held off for a little while long—

Uh-oh.

Great, she thought as she vaguely registered Sam’s nod and softly muttered hello. At this rate, her nipples would begin to tingle in no time fla—

Oh, yeah. There they went, too, way ahead of schedule. Maybe doubling up on the damiana hadn’t been such a good idea after all….

Because it couldn’t just be Sam’s simple presence making her want to wrestle him to the floor the way she did just then. Could it? She always at least indulged in a little small talk before it came to that, even in her fantasies. It had to be some faster-than-usual reaction to the tea. Maybe the cinnamon and damiana worked better together than she’d realized.

“Um, hi, Chief,” she said, gripping her mug tightly with both hands to keep herself from…oh, she didn’t know…grabbing the placket of his shirt and ripping it down the middle, buttons flying. The top two were already undone—something that would have made her job much easier—and dark hair sprang from the opening, making her fingers itch to investigate further.

Unbidden, an image erupted in her head of him naked and prone on her bed as she dragged her fingers through the dark hair on his chest before inching them slowly, slowly, oh-so-slowly down to his flat abdomen. Then lower still, into the thatch of dark hair surrounding his cock, which she circled with sure fingers and drew eagerly toward her waiting mou—

Rosie squeezed her eyes shut tight in an effort to drive the vision out of her head. But that only made it more vivid. Because now she saw herself, too, naked and crouched over him on her hands and knees and faced in the opposite direction, with Sam gripping her hips in strong fists, his head lifted between her legs. Both of them seemed to be competing over who could consume the other first, and neither seemed to be slaking their hunger. As he hungrily ate her, she moved her head slowly up and down, pulling his big cock farther into her mouth with every descent. Immediately, Rosie snapped her eyes open again, but not before she saw the fantasy Sam’s tongue dart quickly in and out of her damp—

“I’m, um…I, uh…” She tried to remember what she’d been about to say, but couldn’t seem to string two thoughts, never mind two words, together. Definitely needed to lighten up on the damiana in the next recipe, she told herself. And also, the next time she mixed one up, she needed to be in a different ZIP code than Sam Maguire was in. Or maybe a different area code. Or country. Or hemisphere. Or galaxy. Yeah, that might be enough.

Finally, she managed to say, “I’m, ah, I’m actually not open yet….” Well, not her store anyway. There were other parts of her that were wide open, at least in the fantasy she couldn’t seem to chase out of her brain. “I mean, I, um, I haven’t even picked up my bank float for the ass register. I mean cash register,” she quickly corrected herself when she realized how egregiously she’d misspoken.

“That’s okay,” Sam told her. Though the look he was giving her was anything but okay.

Still, she couldn’t help thinking, if he wasn’t going to buy anything, then he must have come here for another reason, and maybe that reason was, oh…Rosie didn’t know…to have really smokin’ sex.

His expression changed suddenly, to one of worry. Color her crazy, but worry didn’t seem like the thing a man should be feeling if he’d just shown up for really smokin’ sex.

“Are you okay, Rosie?” he asked cautiously. Caution, too, she thought, probably wasn’t a good indicator of that smokin’ sex thing being only minutes away. “You look a little…”

“What?” she asked.

“Distracted,” he told her. Though he looked as though he’d been about to say something else. Something like, oh…Rosie didn’t know…profoundly turned-on in a way that makes me want to pull down your pants, spin you around, bend you over and bury myself inside you to the hilt.

Oh, God…

Rosie did her best to calm herself, her thoughts and her privates. “Can I, um, can I help you, Chief?” she tried again, somehow stopping herself before uttering the entire question she’d really wanted to ask, which was Can I help you, Chief, out of those clothes?

“Yeah, actually, you can,” he said.

Rosie knew a moment’s euphoria, until she realized he wasn’t talking about the clothes thing, but was simply answering the standard question of retailers everywhere. Note to self, she thought, doubling up on damiana makes for excellent fantasizing but it’s not so good on the coherent thinking. Or maybe it was just the way Sam Maguire was put together that made for incoherent thinking. Not to mention the excellent fantasizing.

Um, what was the question again?

Thankfully, she didn’t have to remember, because Sam replied, “I need to order some flowers.”

Well, hell. If he was ordering flowers, it was doubtless for a woman, and that could seriously jeopardize any asking him out on a date she might do. Worse, it could jeopardize his response to her invitation. Worst of all, it could jeopardize any potential for smokin’ sex. Unless they were flowers for a funeral, she thought further, brightening. If he was going to order flowers for a dead woman, well, that was a whole ’nother ball game. Not to mention A-okay with Rosie.

“For a funeral?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound as optimistic as she felt, since that would be in really bad taste.

Sam’s expression turned confused this time. “Uh, no. For my mother.”

Even better, Rosie thought. Not only did it offer a new positive dimension into his character—one of caring son—but it would save her a bundle in the therapist bills she’d be paying to help her cope with her joy at hearing the news of someone else’s death. Talk about a win-win situation. The only thing that might improve it would be if Sam, oh…Rosie didn’t know…stepped forward and filled her mouth with his tongue, shoved one hand up her shirt to massage her breast, and thrust the other into her pants to fondle her until she was insensate with ecstasy. Other than that, the conversation was moving along swimmingly.

Sam looked at Rosie and told himself for the tenth time that she couldn’t possibly be feeling the way she seemed to be feeling. Surely it was just wishful thinking on his part making her look as if she were incredibly, well…turned-on. Because she really did seem to be incredibly, well…turned-on. In fact, she’d been looking as if she was incredibly, well…turned-on, ever since he walked into the shop. But there was nothing about the scenario that should have, well…turned her on so incredibly.

She was fully clothed—except for the way her shirt had fallen off one shoulder. One naked, ivory, luscious shoulder. Which, in case he hadn’t mentioned it, was naked, something that pretty much indicated she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Which meant that, under her shirt, she was naked. And also naked. Had he mentioned she was naked under her shirt? Which was also untucked? Something that would make it really easy for him to scoop his hand under the garment to experience her nakedness for himself?

A sudden, nearly overwhelming urge came over him then to lean forward and lick her ivory, luscious—and naked, in case that part wasn’t obvious—shoulder. Which, in turn, made him feel incredibly, well…turned-on. God, he hoped he didn’t look incredibly, well…turned-on. Not the way Rosie did.

He told himself again that he was only imagining the way she looked. How could anyone feel turned-on in her place of employment, first thing in the morning, when, if the broom behind her was any indication, she’d just been sweeping up? No way was sweeping a turn-on. Unless, you know, it was Rosie Bliss and her naked shoulder doing it.

Ah, hell.

His mouth and throat were starting to feel a little dry when he noticed the mug Rosie was holding in her hand. There were more like it on the shelf behind her, next to a teapot from which she had obviously just poured herself something to drink. Sam wasn’t much of a tea drinker—okay, he never touched the stuff—but something wet sounded really good right then. Other than Rosie, he meant.

Damn. Then again, she did look incredibly, well…turned-on.

“Do you mind?” he said as he strode forward and reached past her for a mug.

It was a rhetorical question, naturally, since he also reached for the teapot and, without even asking for her okay, poured himself a mugful of tea. After all, there was a sign behind it that said Help Yourself, so why shouldn’t he? Unless, of course, the sign referred to something other than the tea. But what were the chances Rosie had put up a sign in her shop inviting her customers to help themselves to her? Not that that probably wouldn’t have been great for business.

He wasn’t here for business, Sam reminded himself as he splashed tea into the mug, regardless of what he’d just said about ordering flowers for his mother. He was here to pump Rosie. Uh, for information, he meant. Only he needed to do it in a way that she wouldn’t realize he was pumping her. Uh, for information, he meant. Because if he was here to actually, you know, pump her, she’d sure as hell know it.

He’d spent the bulk of his afternoon yesterday trying to find out more about Rosie Bliss, only to discover there was almost no information available anywhere on Rosie Bliss. Sam wasn’t quite ready to throw in with Ed Dinwiddie and start suspecting her of illicit activity, but his curiosity about her had definitely been piqued. Even more so than before. He’d figured a little reconnaissance under the guise of patronizing her shop—especially at a time when it wasn’t open and Rosie might be a little more relaxed—ought to lend itself to some conversation that would reveal a little more about her. Or, at the very least, give him a bit more information to go on in his search to uncover more about her. Besides, it had been a while since he’d sent his mother some flowers.

Still watching Rosie, who suddenly looked as if she were worried about something—in addition to still looking incredibly, well…turned-on—Sam started to lift the mug of tea to his lips.

But before he had a chance to taste it, she cried out, “Stop!”

Automatically, he lowered his hand. But he continued to hold her gaze steady as he asked, “Why? I thought it was for your customers.”

“It is,” she replied quickly.

A little too quickly to Sam’s way of thinking. She seemed pretty agitated about something all of a sudden. Though she still looked very turned-on. Her pupils had expanded to the point where her green irises were mere rims around them. Her cheeks were stained with a crimson blush, and her lips looked redder than usual and were parted slightly, as if she needed more air. The skin above the low-lying neckline of her shirt was flushed, too, and something told Sam it would be hot to the touch.

The fingers of his free hand began to curl involuntarily at his side, as if they very much wanted to test that theory right now, and it was with no small effort that he managed to curb the impulse. But it rose right up again when he noticed how her chest was rising and falling rapidly, pushing her breasts against the thin fabric of her shirt. Her nipples, he couldn’t possibly help noticing every time she inhaled, were hard and distended, another indication that she was indeed turned-on.

And dammit, now Sam was, too.

“Let me brew you a fresh pot,” she said as she began to reach for the mug, pulling his attention—and his gaze, finally—back to the tea he’d just poured for himself. “That’s been sitting there awhile.”

“It’s barely eight in the morning,” he pointed out. “It can’t have been sitting there that long. Hell, it’s still hot,” he added when he felt the temperature of the tea through the mug. “Besides, you obviously just had some yourself. It’ll be fine.”

“But you’d probably prefer coffee,” she said, reaching for the mug again, moving her hand even closer.

Without asking himself why, Sam pulled the cup out of range before she could touch it. He told himself it was because he didn’t like it when people made decisions for him. It wasn’t because he was hoping on some level that, by removing the cup from her reach, she’d be forced to take a step forward to get it, something that would bring her body closer to his.

“It’ll be fine,” he repeated. “I just need a little something to quench my thirst.”

“But—”

He only took a small sip first, in case the tea was hot, then, when he discovered the temperature was perfect, enjoyed a few hearty swallows. He grimaced a little when he realized it wasn’t regular tea, but some herbal stuff that was a little heavy on the cinnamon. Still, it tasted fine, and it went a long way toward alleviating the dryness in his mouth.

He continued to watch Rosie as he enjoyed a few more sips, and couldn’t help thinking she looked more and more panicked with every passing second. Something wasn’t right with her. She just had some kind of vibe coming off her at the moment that wasn’t in keeping with her usual easygoing self. And he couldn’t help thinking it was his presence in her shop that was causing it.

Maybe Ed Dinwiddie was on to something, he thought before he could stop himself. Maybe everything about Rosie wasn’t on the up-and-up, after all. Because somehow Sam was starting to get the impression that she’d been doing something just now, before he came into the shop, that she shouldn’t have been doing. He honestly couldn’t say what, but right now she seemed edgy and anxious, as if she feared she was about to be caught.

Unable to help himself—hey, you could take the cop out of vice, but you couldn’t take the suspicion out of the vice cop—he drove his gaze around the shop as surreptitiously as he could, trying to discern if anything was amiss or out of place. But the place was tidy to a fault, and even more quaint than the police station. The dark hardwood floor was buffed to a rich sheen, the walls were painted forest green, striped with wooden shelves that were overflowing with plants and flowers and pots. An antique cash register sat on the countertop to his left, behind which were more shelves, more plants, more flowers, more pots. There was a door leading to a back room that was open, and Sam could see more of the same beyond, along with tables and stools and flower arrangements in varying stages of completion.

For the first time, he noticed the smell of the place, a mixture of sweet blossoms, cinnamon tea and loamy earth. The only window was the one to the right of where they stood, the faint golden sunlight filtering through it the only light present at the moment. From Malcolm’s Music Mart next door, he could hear the faint strains of something classical and heavy on the horns, music from another time tumbling into a room that might as well have sprung from the same century. All combined, the impressions gave the shop an otherworldly ambiance, where Sam could almost believe time had stopped and he and Rosie were the only people left on the planet.

It was such a whimsical thought for such a practical man. What the hell had come over him to make him think like that? Shaking the odd sensations out of his head almost literally, he downed what was left of his tea and set the mug on a different shelf from the clean ones. Then he looked at Rosie again.

Big mistake, he immediately realized. Because where before she had looked incredibly, well…turned-on, now, suddenly, she looked thoroughly and profoundly aroused. Not only that, but she hadn’t dropped the hand with which she’d been reaching for his mug, and it still hovered near Sam’s shoulder, as if she were having trouble deciding what she wanted to do with it.

And suddenly, completely unbidden, Sam had a very good idea of what she should do with it. Not only that, but he had a good idea for his own hand, too. In fact, the idea was so strong, and so demanding, he couldn’t push it out of his brain. Because there, in his mind’s eye, he saw himself and Rosie, standing right where they were in the middle of the flower shop, her fingers wrapped possessively around his cock as she jerked him to completion, him with his long middle finger buried in her damp slit as he drilled her for all he was worth.

And good God, where had that thought come from? he wondered as he did his best to squash it. More to the point, why wasn’t it going anywhere, no matter how hard he tried to push it away?